Scarlett Celice is approaching her twenty-first birthday and rite of passage: consuming her first victim.
For centuries, the Celice family has run Gloomsborough: a town where supernatural creatures and humans reside in harmony. A family well-respect...
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HOME IS WHERE the skulls are.
After a long day of trifling with townsfolk whose blood would be more useful on a sacrificial altar, there is nothing better than the sweet smell of death to welcome me home. If the human world is going to feel so much like a coffin, they may as well let me put my blade to use on more than sleazy bloodsuckers.
Tonight, a walk home that would normally be pleasant is anything but. Grandpa Alaric hasn't said a word since he dragged us out of the well by a rusty bucket chain that nearly snapped in two under my twin's weight. For slight figures, we are more solid than humans of our size: where they are feather-light, we have bones like boulders beneath rugged skin that feels like silk. Centuries old wells are not made to withstand us.
Even the woods have died. We take a silent, slogging trek through the trees behind the old wishing well. Critters that usually greet us in our home turf remain in hiding. The firelight moths who illuminate the winding paths do not emerge from their pinprick holes within the trees.
When a Fleshcarver is slain, nature mourns what other species do not.
Fabric rustles sharply past my ear. Jett slings his cloak inside-out over his shoulder, clothing his arm in material darker than night. He ruffles his onyx hair out of its sweaty mat. Crimson tips flutter like dripping blood.
We are two sides of the same blade: tall, lanky, and sharp-featured. Our eyes, a resting pale blue, glow pale like the moon when pleased. Turn to blood when we aren't. Now, his are nearly the same steely gray as Dain's had been before the head was chopped from his shoulders.
"Hazel," he mutters our sister's name, gaze darting to our grandfather who ambles far enough ahead to not pay us mind. Alaric could hear us if he wanted to, even from a football field's length, but it's clear his attention is diverted. "You don't think she..."
I straighten my posture, as if her name will roll off my shoulders. "Grandpa wouldn't lie."
If mother has taught me anything, it is to neither confirm nor deny such statements. Intention brings much to fruition that wouldn't happen otherwise. There are few things more dangerous than karma, and the power of words is one.
